I forget to eat for a few months andI drown in cheap ideas with pretty names,the ones they fill books and barren wristsand stormy heads with, and soon, moonlight shines from insidemy ribs and I am a lighthouse.

Thank you for the things you gave me,intrinsically, a knowledge ofhow to properly wearmyself. Thank you

for not fixing me.

I used to write about the color of your voice, always blue-- the skybefore I fell asleep and the morningdragging me back; I wonder

that you could’ve loved me betterif you explained who the Something was that shared your bed at night, or why insincere words

were your favorite.

My poems still cling to my skin even when I sleep. even when I wake, an anchor. even when I boil myself alive and unfold like a pallid lily inside your heavy hands;

and after enough time,I forget to say goodbye.

Today,

I pick the scabs on my hips,kiss the sorry out of your smile,and breathe like this air isn’t already a million years old.

this is beautiful and amazing it sounds gut-wrenchingly painful, heart-breaking and sad. I'm so sorry. I wish I weren't beginning to know the feeling myself, but your pain is inspiring and thank you for putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, as it were).

moonlight shines from insidemy ribs and I am a lighthouse.This image is impossibly stuck in my head. I think this poem is a little less connected to itself than usual, so it's a little more disjointed and harder to sink into (in my opinion, which ultimately means little), but you as always have those particular moments that are hard to forget. <3